A Trick of the Light
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: A fleeting moment of chance can change a perspective. Only time will tell to what end.  Set during Reichenbach Falls, but there are no spoilers. Part one in my "Songs of Inspiration" series.


This is part one of my "Songs of Inspiration" series. I've a minimum of two hours a day spent just listening to music, and sometimes the songs give me a flash of inspiration. It's important to note that they're not songfics. I'm posting them individually because they're of varying ratings.

**This one is based on Aerosmith's song "_Dream __On_".**

As always, I appreciate all comments (including constructive criticism), so please feel free to do so.

~Mei

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><p><strong>A Trick of the Light<strong>

It was one of those days again, where the criminals weren't being interesting, and Lestrade wouldn't allow him access to the archived cases. Apparently he'd taken offence when Sherlock had pickpocketed his car keys, flat keys and his phone. So here he was; curled up on the sofa, hugging his skull, and generally moping about being bored.

The kettle had been boiling for near five minutes now; he'd taken the wire from the switch that would automatically turn it off. He really ought go and turn it off before it boiled dry and began to spark. John might actually hurt him if he set fire to the kettle; he was still sore from the incident with his Dr Who DVD collection. At least it was the most recent series. Sherlock doubted he'd still be breathing if he'd put David Tennant in the Bunsen flame.

With extreme reluctance, he slid head-first off the sofa. From there he crawled across the table, over John's chair and into the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle, then hauled himself up against the counter. From there he could see the entirety of the flat. So much information, in such a little space. John had a date tonight and was hoping to score; it was obvious in the way that he'd tried to tidy up the flat. Sherlock grumbled various obscenities at his flatmate; he couldn't see the order in the seemingly haphazard was that papers were strewn about. His violin had been moved from its spot by the window to pride of place on the mantelpiece. Evidently John was confident, or desperate. He knew not to touch Sherlock's violin.

With nothing better to do, he stalked over to the mirror and grabbed the violin. He stroked his hand lovingly along the polished wood. This was his escape and he needed little else. He drew back the bow and listened to a beautiful, slightly haunting chord. G, sustained fourth. As his fingers began to dance across the strings he closed his eyes and let his mind flow. A particularly violent clash - D flat on G sharp, flattened ninth - had his eyes forced open. That chord hadn't been planned. His fingers had been subconsciously controlled; why had they drawn as bloody a picture as that? He knew the answer, of course. Every palace held hidden rooms and secret doors; places that were buried in a vain attempt to pretend they don't exist.

The sunlight streamed through the window as it was reflect off the bonnet of a passing car. If his maths and memory served him well, which they did of course, it was a red Citroën C1. The light came off the bonnet, was refracted through the window and came into the flat at such an angle that it bounced off the mirror. In that moment, Sherlock's mind froze.

The light distorted his reflection in the mirror. It softened his cheekbones, rounded his jaw and removed the angular planes of his face. The man he saw was no longer Sherlock Holmes. This man, if you could call him that, was Jim Moriarty.

A trick of the light; something so small, simple, insignificant could change him from hero - such an unrealistic notion - to villain. How easy it would be, he realised, to apply his mind to crime. To be the one putting the body there. To delve into the mind of the criminal and never come back. When he was bored, and his mind chased itself like a dog with its' tail, how relieving it would be to be proactive, rather than have to wait for the criminals to do something interesting.

And then, it was gone. The car had been doing twenty-six miles an hour. The light had reflected off it for precisely two point eight three seconds. John would come home hours later to find him curled around his violin, the bow broken at his feet. For in that time Sherlock Holmes had the revelation that would ultimately be his saving, his downfall. He was Moriarty, but on the side of the angels.


End file.
